


To Prove a Point

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Thigh high stockings, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't challenge Sherlock's disguises.</p><p>*Full version is chapter 2!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, unbritpicked.  
> This is, surprisingly enough, the _clean version_ chapter. The other version will maybe be posted as a second chapter or maybe posted completely separately.  
> 

Sherlock should have taken into account that John would find out about this particular subsection of disguises one day, considering how careless he was with the pieces of his disguise kit when they had served their purpose.

Instead, the discovery caught him off-guard when John all but waltzed into the kitchen after an emergency grocery shopping trip and stumbled on something that could be nothing other than the shoe he’d worn earlier that afternoon while he was finishing up a case. (Rich, jaded man, incredibly boring. None of the proper motives.)

From his position on the couch, Sherlock heard the stumble, John’s swearing, the dropping of full plastic carrier bags, and the dull crack that came with breaking a heel. Damn, that was the expensive pair.

“Sherlock, what the hell is this?” John snapped, coming into the living room. Sherlock unsteepled his fingers from beneath his chin and pushed himself up onto his elbows. John has the back edge of the shoe—a warm brown, squared off toe, sensible-heighted heel—hooked on a finger; the heel is broken off completely and has the rest of John’s fingers on that hand curled around it.

“It’s a shoe.” Sherlock dropped back against the cushions of the couch. “And it was three hundred quid.” He closed his eyes against John’s nasal huff of disbelief.

“Why’ve you got a three hundred quid shoe just lying about the kitchen?” John demanded, thrusting the shoe out again. Sherlock peeled his eyes back open and pushed out a breath of exasperation.

“I have a disguise kit. I needed that particular pair this afternoon.”

Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash at John’s bark of laughter. “Sure, sure. I doubt you’d look too convincing, though.” His tone was one of annoyance. He was upset at tripping over the shoe.

“Looking convincing is irrelevant to the matter at hand. I was convincing enough to finish a case in a disguise including those shoes earlier this afternoon,” Sherlock replied. If John didn’t believe him, he still had the smudges of eyeliner under his eyes and bits of mascara clinging stubbornly to his lashes to prove it.

“You mean you didn’t give yourself away with your broad shoulders and your bloody manly jawline?” John was hooked now; Sherlock had captured his attention, though he still sounded skeptical.

“No one there recognized me, if that’s what you mean.” Sherlock sat up again in time to see John roll his eyes, almost having forgotten about the shoe dangling from his finger. “My hot glue gun is under the sink, by the way,” he stated, nonchalance dripping from his every word, then pushed himself up off of the couch and strutted past John in a billow of blue silk.

“That’s not very sturdy!” John protested. He shut his bedroom door with a snap. “Sherlock!”

John didn’t see Sherlock the rest of the day—save for when he caught Sherlock coming out of the shower, an odd toiletries bag tucked under his arm and his legs oddly shiny looking despite being dry.

“Did—did you shave your _legs_?” he called incredulously after the detective. He got a dismissive hand gesture and the sound of a door shutting as an answer.

==

The next morning, John was dismayed to discover that his spill over Sherlock’s shoe—which was still sitting on the table, and had been hot glued back to its heeled state—had managed to smash half of the eggs in the carton and crack the other half.

Somehow, John suspected Sherlock had more to do with that than just leaving shoes from his dress-up kit all over the place. The man in question came out of his room then, and plucked the cup of tea John had just made for himself off of the countertop. “I’m going out this morning,” he said, taking a generous gulp from the mug.

John sighed resignedly. “That was my tea. If you’re going out, can you pick up—”

“No. I’m not going near a grocery today.” Sherlock’s retort was instant and almost too quick, but John didn’t pay it much mind. He shook his head.

“You could.”

“But I’m not. It would be far too out of my way.”

John opened his mouth to give his argument, but Sherlock pushed the mug into his hands and swept out of the kitchen, pulling his coat from the hook, and was disappearing through the door before John could say a word. Without thinking about it, John took a sip from the mug.

Across the kitchen, his phone alerted him to a text.

_Blue or green? SH_

John set the mug on the table with a thump. A bit of tea sloshed over the side, but he ignored it. After a few moments of just standing at the table and rubbing at his temples, John picked up his phone and thumbed out a reply that he knew Sherlock would see as tongue-in-cheek.

_Teal. JW_

His phone alerted him to another text; he steadfastly ignored it. John had another trip of grocery shopping to make.

==

John was home and had the new carton of eggs put away before he noticed anyone in the sitting room.

The presence of another body that wasn’t obviously Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson in the flat had John narrowing his eyes just a fraction; he was sure he’d locked the door when he left, and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said anything about letting in a guest.

He puttered about the kitchen as casually as he could, wanting to get a good look at this person—a woman. John could tell by her posture and the shape of her calves—before saying anything.

From what he could tell, the woman was what his sister would call an exotic beauty—when she was drunk, his mind supplied as he filled the electric kettle under the tap.

“Aren’t you going to greet your guest, Doctor Watson?” she called. Her voice was a rich, smoky alto that sent chills down John’s spine. “I feel so ignored...” He could practically hear the pout that was no doubt painted on her face as artfully as the wine-coloured lipstick that made her look like a plush-lipped china doll.

“Ah—sorry.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair and stepped into the living room to greet this mystery woman sitting in Sherlock’s chair, legs crossed at the knee. He registered the smirk on the woman’s face before he got close enough, and the teal dress draped over her curves set a red flag flying in his head. “Sherlock,” he said instead. The woman’s—Sherlock’s—smirk turned to a cat-got-the-cream sort of smirk. “You’re a bastard.” John frowned.

“I know. You said I couldn’t be convincing.” Sherlock shifted and recrossed his legs, and John couldn’t help but let his eyes flick down to the legs in question. The legs that were clad in sheer black stockings that looked like they’d be soft to the touch. On Sherlock’s feet were a brand new pair of heels—it looked like—that had to have been expensive: they were black, and the lace that decorated the sides was black as well, if a bit shimmery. Sherlock’s voice jerked John away from his staring.

“Have you had your fill of ogling my legs?” Sherlock didn’t sound irritated. In fact, he sounded as if he had expected it. John’s face twisted into a scowl, even as his eyes settled on the necklace he wore. John noticed how the pendant settled perfectly against the dip between his collarbones and sparkled faintly with each intake of breath. “Go ahead, John, look. Looking is the sole purpose for dressing up.”

John’s eyes flicked back down to Sherlock’s legs. He took a second notice of the heels. “Can you even walk in those? Honestly, Sherlock.” Sherlock straightened a bent knee and pointed the toe of the shoe in John’s direction. John had to fight not to notice the curve of his foot too much and curled his hands into tight balls at his sides to resist the urge to reach out and cup Sherlock’s slender ankle in his palm.

“Would I own them if I couldn’t?” Sherlock responded, lifting an eyebrow and pulling thin fingers gently through a wig as dark and curly as his natural hair. The curls dropped gently against one shoulder, and the dark against the pale of Sherlock’s shoulder made his skin seem to glow.

“Prove it.” At his words, Sherlock lowered his foot, stood fluidly from his seat, and he maneuvered the sitting room gracefully. John watched, giving Sherlock an appraising once-over as he turned.

The dress Sherlock had chosen was suddenly all the proof John would ever need that the line of clothing could alter appearance: the shade of teal made Sherlock’s eyes a brighter blue; the ruching just above Sherlock’s waistline made his waist look tiny and his hips fuller; the artful twist of fabric at his breastbone and the off-the-shoulder straps made Sherlock’s shoulders look less _broad_ and more _delicately thin_ , and the way Sherlock stood accentuated the jut of his collarbones.

“So—uh—those tights?” John started to ask, giving his throat a subtle clearing and sticking his hands in his pockets to hopefully disguise the bulge in his trousers. Judging by the haughty quirk to Sherlock’s lips, though, he’d noticed. John’s ears burned.

“Thigh high,” Sherlock clarified, rucking up the skirt just high enough to show off the stockings. John nearly laughed—wrapped around Sherlock’s lily-white thigh was a peacock feather design against the sheer black background. John stepped forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets, and grasped Sherlock’s wrist in one hand. He slid his other hand over the stockings, just under the peacock feathers.

“You think this is the way to convince your flatmate that your disguises are good? By using one on him?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I’m sure you deduced at some point that thigh high stockings are a favorite of mine. And they’re a big favorite.” John skimmed his palm down over the smooth silk-and-nylon, to Sherlock’s knee, and back up. His eyes never left Sherlock’s face, and suddenly he was never more glad; he got to watch as Sherlock’s pupils dilated, and the way the lipstick stuck his lips as they parted a small bit.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and John had to fight a swell of pride at how breathless his voice sounded, “John, I didn’t think you would react this strongly to them. I knew you would react somewhat, but not enough to induce physicality.”

“Take off the bloody heels,” he responded. “Take them off right now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, unbritpicked, yeah.  
> This is the full version! Enjoy. Heh.

Sherlock should have taken into account that John would find out about this particular subsection of disguises one day, considering how careless he was with the pieces of his disguise kit when they had served their purpose.

Instead, the discovery caught him off-guard when John all but waltzed into the kitchen after an emergency grocery shopping trip and stumbled on something that could be nothing other than the shoe he’d worn earlier that afternoon while he was finishing up a case. (Rich, jaded man, incredibly boring. None of the proper motives.)

From his position on the couch, Sherlock heard the stumble, John’s swearing, the dropping of full plastic carrier bags, and the dull crack that came with breaking a heel. Damn, that was the expensive pair.

“Sherlock, what the hell is this?” John snapped, coming into the living room. Sherlock unsteepled his fingers from beneath his chin and pushed himself up onto his elbows. John has the back edge of the shoe—a warm brown, squared off toe, sensible-heighted heel—hooked on a finger; the heel is broken off completely and has the rest of John’s fingers on that hand curled around it.

“It’s a shoe.” Sherlock dropped back against the cushions of the couch. “And it was three hundred quid.” He closed his eyes against John’s nasal huff of disbelief.

“Why’ve you got a three hundred quid shoe just lying about the kitchen?” John demanded, thrusting the shoe out again. Sherlock peeled his eyes back open and pushed out a breath of exasperation.

“I have a disguise kit. I needed that particular pair this afternoon.”

Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash at John’s bark of laughter. “Sure, sure. I doubt you’d look too convincing, though.” His tone was one of annoyance. He was upset at tripping over the shoe.

“Looking convincing is irrelevant to the matter at hand. I was convincing enough to finish a case in a disguise including those shoes earlier this afternoon,” Sherlock replied. If John didn’t believe him, he still had the smudges of eyeliner under his eyes and bits of mascara clinging stubbornly to his lashes to prove it.

“You mean you didn’t give yourself away with your broad shoulders and your bloody manly jawline?” John was hooked now; Sherlock had captured his attention, though he still sounded skeptical.

“No one there recognized me, if that’s what you mean.” Sherlock sat up again in time to see John roll his eyes, almost having forgotten about the shoe dangling from his finger. “My hot glue gun is under the sink, by the way,” he stated, nonchalance dripping from his every word, then pushed himself up off of the couch and strutted past John in a billow of blue silk.

“That’s not very sturdy!” John protested. He shut his bedroom door with a snap. “Sherlock!”

John didn’t see Sherlock the rest of the day—save for when he caught Sherlock coming out of the shower, an odd toiletries bag tucked under his arm and his legs oddly shiny looking despite being dry.

“Did—did you shave your _legs_?” he called incredulously after the detective. He got a dismissive hand gesture and the sound of a door shutting as an answer.

==

The next morning, John was dismayed to discover that his spill over Sherlock’s shoe—which was still sitting on the table, and had been hot glued back to its heeled state—had managed to smash half of the eggs in the carton and crack the other half.

Somehow, John suspected Sherlock had more to do with that than just leaving shoes from his dress-up kit all over the place. The man in question came out of his room then, and plucked the cup of tea John had just made for himself off of the countertop. “I’m going out this morning,” he said, taking a generous gulp from the mug.

John sighed resignedly. “That was my tea. If you’re going out, can you pick up—”

“No. I’m not going near a grocery today.” Sherlock’s retort was instant and almost too quick, but John didn’t pay it much mind. He shook his head.

“You could.”

“But I’m not. It would be far too out of my way.”

John opened his mouth to give his argument, but Sherlock pushed the mug into his hands and swept out of the kitchen, pulling his coat from the hook, and was disappearing through the door before John could say a word. Without thinking about it, John took a sip from the mug.

Across the kitchen, his phone alerted him to a text.

_Blue or green? SH_

John set the mug on the table with a thump. A bit of tea sloshed over the side, but he ignored it. After a few moments of just standing at the table and rubbing at his temples, John picked up his phone and thumbed out a reply that he knew Sherlock would see as tongue-in-cheek.

_Teal. JW_

His phone alerted him to another text; he steadfastly ignored it. John had another trip of grocery shopping to make.

==

John was home and had the new carton of eggs put away before he noticed anyone in the sitting room.

The presence of another body that wasn’t obviously Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson in the flat had John narrowing his eyes just a fraction; he was sure he’d locked the door when he left, and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said anything about letting in a guest.

He puttered about the kitchen as casually as he could, wanting to get a good look at this person—a woman. John could tell by her posture and the shape of her calves—before saying anything.

From what he could tell, the woman was what his sister would call an exotic beauty—when she was drunk, his mind supplied as he filled the electric kettle under the tap.

“Aren’t you going to greet your guest, Doctor Watson?” she called. Her voice was a rich, smoky alto that sent chills down John’s spine. “I feel so ignored...” He could practically hear the pout that was no doubt painted on her face as artfully as the wine-coloured lipstick that made her look like a plush-lipped china doll.

“Ah—sorry.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair and stepped into the living room to greet this mystery woman sitting in Sherlock’s chair, legs crossed at the knee. He registered the smirk on the woman’s face before he got close enough, and the teal dress draped over her curves set a red flag flying in his head. “Sherlock,” he said instead. The woman’s—Sherlock’s—smirk turned to a cat-got-the-cream sort of smirk. “You’re a bastard.” John frowned.

“I know. You said I couldn’t be convincing.” Sherlock shifted and recrossed his legs, and John couldn’t help but let his eyes flick down to the legs in question. The legs that were clad in sheer black stockings that looked like they’d be soft to the touch. On Sherlock’s feet were a brand new pair of heels—it looked like—that had to have been expensive: they were black, and the lace that decorated the sides was black as well, if a bit shimmery. Sherlock’s voice jerked John away from his staring.

“Have you had your fill of ogling my legs?” Sherlock didn’t sound irritated. In fact, he sounded as if he had expected it. John’s face twisted into a scowl, even as his eyes settled on the necklace he wore. John noticed how the pendant settled perfectly against the dip between his collarbones and sparkled faintly with each intake of breath. “Go ahead, John, look. Looking is the sole purpose for dressing up.”

John’s eyes flicked back down to Sherlock’s legs. He took a second notice of the heels. “Can you even walk in those? Honestly, Sherlock.” Sherlock straightened a bent knee and pointed the toe of the shoe in John’s direction. John had to fight not to notice the curve of his foot too much and curled his hands into tight balls at his sides to resist the urge to reach out and cup Sherlock’s slender ankle in his palm.

“Would I own them if I couldn’t?” Sherlock responded, lifting an eyebrow and pulling thin fingers gently through a wig as dark and curly as his natural hair. The curls dropped gently against one shoulder, and the dark against the pale of Sherlock’s shoulder made his skin seem to glow.

“Prove it.” At his words, Sherlock lowered his foot, stood fluidly from his seat, and he maneuvered the sitting room gracefully. John watched, giving Sherlock an appraising once-over as he turned.

The dress Sherlock had chosen was suddenly all the proof John would ever need that the line of clothing could alter appearance: the shade of teal made Sherlock’s eyes a brighter blue; the ruching just above Sherlock’s waistline made his waist look tiny and his hips fuller; the artful twist of fabric at his breastbone and the off-the-shoulder straps made Sherlock’s shoulders look less _broad_ and more _delicately thin_ , and the way Sherlock stood accentuated the jut of his collarbones.

“So—uh—those tights?” John started to ask, giving his throat a subtle clearing and sticking his hands in his pockets to hopefully disguise the bulge in his trousers. Judging by the haughty quirk to Sherlock’s lips, though, he’d noticed. John’s ears burned.

“Thigh high,” Sherlock clarified, rucking up the skirt just high enough to show off the stockings. John nearly laughed—wrapped around Sherlock’s lily-white thigh was a peacock feather design against the sheer black background. John stepped forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets, and grasped Sherlock’s wrist in one hand. He slid his other hand over the stockings, just under the peacock feathers.

“You think this is the way to convince your flatmate that your disguises are good? By using one on him?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I’m sure you deduced at some point that thigh high stockings are a favorite of mine. And they’re a big favorite.” John skimmed his palm down over the smooth silk-and-nylon, to Sherlock’s knee, and back up. His eyes never left Sherlock’s face, and suddenly he was never more glad; he got to watch as Sherlock’s pupils dilated, and the way the lipstick stuck his lips as they parted a small bit.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and John had to fight a swell of pride at how breathless his voice sounded, “John, I didn’t think you would react this strongly to them. I knew you would react somewhat, but not enough to induce physicality.”

“Take off the bloody heels,” he responded. “Take them off right now.”

Sherlock toed off the heels; that was four inches of height difference between them gone. John let go of his wrist, gripped at the back of his neck, fingers curling in the fibres of the wig, and tugged Sherlock’s face down.

The taste of lipstick was one that John was used to, but knowing that it was coming from Sherlock’s mouth, the cosmetic had more of a bitter tang behind it. When Sherlock set his hands at John’s shoulders and wound lithe fingers into his jumper, John pulled back, severing the contact of lips.

The motion earned him a softly snarled threat of, “If you back out now...” and a sharp tug forward. John mashed their lips together again, pulling Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own for a firm suck. The taste of his lipstick lingered in John’s mouth, but John didn’t mind it; he never had minded lipstick. Sherlock’s fingers uncurled from his jumper and slid to grip at his upper arms, and the noise he made had heat coiling low in John’s stomach.

He gripped at Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock repeated the noise and dropped his hands from John’s arms to grab his back. John let go of Sherlock’s lip with the soft, wet sound of slight suction and giving an appreciative look to the smeared lipstick, leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock’s neck.

The reaction was instantaneous: Sherlock’s head dropped back, and John was cupping the curve of his skull, hyperaware of the netting in the wig under his fingers. He sucked an openmouthed kiss to the curve of Sherlock’s neck and half-suppressed a shudder at the throaty whine that seemed to tear itself from Sherlock’s throat. He drew his tongue up the line of Sherlock’s jugular and couldn’t hold back a smirk as Sherlock pulled in a shaky breath.

He started to speak, too, even as John moved his hand from cupping the back of Sherlock’s head to brush hair from the wig away from the side of his neck: “When you’re quite through being amused at the sensitivity of my neck—ah, _ah_ —” John cut him off with a series of sucks and nips to the skin underneath his ear, mentally slapping himself for trying to catalogue the short exhales and shuddery inhales for later.

“Sherlock,” he said, pressing his mouth against the skin of his jaw, “if you want me to stop, then say—”

“Yes, say so, I know,” Sherlock snapped, dropping his hand to circle his fingers around John’s wrist. He pulled John’s hand higher up his thigh, from silky stockings to shockingly soft skin. “I don’t want you to. _Hell—_ ” John had taken that as his cue to shake Sherlock’s grasp from his wrist and push his hand around to palm at Sherlock’s arse.

The pads of his fingers met with lace on their skim over skin. “Holy shit,” he breathed, nibbling at the corner of Sherlock’s jaw. “You really went all out with trying to prove your point, didn’t you?” John shifted his weight and pushed one of his thighs between Sherlock’s. He set his hand at Sherlock’s waist and pushed, gently, guiding him back to the wall between the doorway of the flat and the doorway of the kitchen.

Sherlock leaned heavily against the wall and let himself slide down a bit, making up for the height difference between him and John. The reward for that motion was John’s thigh against his groin, and the pressure was almost a relief to how hard he’d gotten over such a short amount of time. He knew John found it attractive when his partners were just as physically forward as he was, so he rolled his hips down against John’s leg and let him see the fluttering closed of his eyelids and the capturing of his lower lip between his teeth.

“God,” John hissed, pushing Sherlock’s skirt up towards his hips and settling his hands so his thumbs could rest at the dip between hipbone and thigh. “That’s fucking hot.” He dug his thumbs into Sherlock’s skin and leaned forward to mouth at his collarbones. He pressed his hips forward, grinding against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s hands came up again and fisted in the shoulders of John’s jumper when the movement pressed his thigh against Sherlock’s erection straining in the black lace knickers he wore.

John’s left hand came up from Sherlock’s hip and braced against his lower abdomen, low enough that the heel of his hand brushed against the head of Sherlock’s cock at the next gyration of hips. Sherlock’s back arched up off the wall. “ _John_ ,” he bit out, letting go of his jumper with one hand to claw at the back of his neck with blunt fingernails.

“Shit,” John moaned, digging his teeth into the slope where neck met shoulder. He gave in and palmed Sherlock’s length over the panties, then slipped his hand under and curled his fingers around it. Sherlock dug his fingernails into John’s neck with more force, and let his head fall back to the wall with a dull _thump_ when John started moving the circle of his fingers in time to the rhythm of their hips.

Neither of them were going to last long at this rate.

They didn’t.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes in John’s mind before Sherlock was writhing against the wall and coming all over John’s hand and his own stomach, and the feeling of Sherlock’s come on his hand set John off—coming in his trousers like a teenager.

Carefully, he pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s knickers and, on knees that felt like bags of water, he wobbled to the kitchen. John maneuvered the tap on one handed and gathered up paper towels from the roll the same way. He brought the paper towels to Sherlock, who took them gratefully.

He was about to make his way upstairs to the safety of his room—and a nice hot shower—when Sherlock spoke. “Maybe next time, I—”

“No,” John was quick to cut him off. “No, I doubt there will be a next time with you dressed like this. No more disguises. No more proving points.”


End file.
